


Disturbances of circadian rhythm

by Anuna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Analysis, F/M, Introspection, Romance, Season 3 Spoilers, but still doesn't completely understand how they work, in which Sherlock slowly learns about his emotions, references to all three seasons, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock Holmes can't sleep, and thinks about Molly Hooper and the nature of his emotions for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disturbances of circadian rhythm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shenshen77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenshen77/gifts).



> This came out of my thoughts and meta notes about Sherlock understanding (and not understanding) his emotions and his connection to Molly Hooper. I've been struggling with it for couple of weeks and I hope I didn't do too badly or have written either of them out of character. Anyway, I just adore these two and I'm glad I've been able to write a bit more about them. 
> 
> This is for my fic buddy [shenshen77](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shenshen77) who never fails being a great friend. *hugs*

_“What does your sorrow do while you sleep?”_

_“It's awake and waiting. And when it loses patience, it wakes me up.” - Ivo Andrić_

 

*

He wakes up disoriented. 

Not strange, since he hasn't slept in longer than twenty four hours, and had been running on caffeine while lacking proper sustenance. It seems that he had fallen asleep while reading a lab report not far away from his usual forking station. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him that he had slept for longer than an hour, which concurs with the pain in his neck. His involuntary break should allow him another three hours of work, which should be enough collect sufficient information and successfully complete his investigation. 

He should probably find a flat soon, and a proper bed to sleep in, in order to improve his functionality. (A flatmate is wholly optional. It would make financial matters easier.)

There are sounds of footsteps followed by the sound of the door opening. It's the pathologist who has a childish crush on him ( _Molly Hooper, single, lives in a flat and has a cat; has couple of friends but doesn't go out very often_ ), and when she notices him there she's startled. She drops her folders and the papers fall all over, resulting in a mess across the lab floor.

“I – I – I am so sorry,” she says. “I had no idea you were still here.”

He tilts his head and regards her; a nervous smile before she picks up her papers, the way she crosses the lab in rapid paces, the self conscious motion when she checks if her hair is still in place. 

“I have fallen asleep while reading this report,” he says.

“Oh,” she looks up and then down at her hands. “Shouldn't you get some rest?” she asks. 

Sherlock rises from his seat. Moving about should help his mind clear up, except his blood pressure drops and he suddenly feels light-headed. Food, he thinks, food would be a good idea. Molly is still observing him. 

“That happens to me too. Maybe you should have some tea,” she rambles. She does this when she's nervous, and she is nervous around him. “Tea, and sugar, and a sandwich, or a proper lunch. It's nearly lunch time.”

“I am quite fine, thank you,” he says. Food can wait. He needs to finish the analysis. Things come in order, should come in order. Other people are a mess of emotions and interrupted thoughts, lost in their desires. 

Molly Hooper glances in his direction four times during ten minutes and blushes when he catches her watching. Emotions lead to attachments, attachments lead to misery, and that's how most people spend their lives – wrapped in thoughts that make them unhappy, reaching for things they cannot obtain. Mess. Too bad for Miss Hooper who is a fine pathologist. Her emotions certainly diminish her efficiency. 

His life is precision. Everything that's useless ends up deleted, which is what he does with his musings about Molly Hooper and focuses at the work in front of him. 

 

*

 

The world thinks he is dead and for the time being dead he should remain. This is why he can't go home, which leads him to a thought that once upon a time he had a home. A home, friends, and a name. 

_Useless_ , he tells himself when the lock finally gives in. _Also, not true_. He is not out of friends, otherwise he wouldn't be picking this very lock and entering an apartment that is seemingly unremarkable, but pleasantly warm. 

_How fitting, indeed._

A cat looks at him, puzzled. “Good evening to you too,” Sherlock says to the creature who judges, correctly, that this isn't the person who'd provide him with cuddles and food and whatever it is that cats want from humans. He closes the door and steps further into the unfamiliar space of Molly Hooper's flat, leaving the coat on as he makes his way to her couch. That's all he needs, just a bit of rest, only until his fever subsides. He curls on his side with shoes on his feet and fever in his bones, his coat around his body. 

This is what he doesn't remember: the sound of the door opening. Molly's gasp when she finds him on her couch. His attempt to greet her and her realization how unwell he feels. Tea. Paracetamol. Hands taking off his shoes, words convincing him out of his coat, a pillow and a blanket; and a careful hand stroking his hair away. Him saying thank you. 

This is what he does remember: blinking against streaks of sunlight coming through the window. Feeling comfortable and warm. Smell of coffee and sounds coming from the kitchen, and realization where he is. Another realization that despite not remembering how he got here, he is safe. 

Molly comes to check on him, realizing that he's awake only when her hand reaches for his forehead and he opens his eyes. The image of her in colourful sweater is swimming as she frowns down at him. Yet he can determine that it's not out of anger, but most probably concern. The tone of her voice affirms his hypothesis. 

“Not doing much better, are you,” she says. The room is spinning and then it slowly stops, as long as there's something to focus his eyes on (the sweater, its texture and colours, clashing with the stripes of her shirt collar. It works on her. Molly makes things that seem impossible work.) Perhaps it's because she's not striking on her own, a figure that melts into the background easily and seamlessly. Perhaps that's a considerable quality in itself. As an observant man he should have realized this before, but when he finally bothered to look around properly everyone else was looking at him, pointing a finger. Oh to see a mighty one dragged through mud. The crowd enjoys a fallen hero like nothing else in the world. 

Convincing people what they should see or think is easy. All you need is a viable doubt, and once it's sprouted branches, it's too late. Except here. With her. It's not because she had idolized him, like everyone thought she did ( _everyone_ are fools) but because she had seen him, correctly, for everything he was and still didn't look away. ( _You always say most horrible things._ ) At the end the world didn't stop spinning for Sherlock Holmes. Didn't wait for him or believe that he was worthy or even good. The world doesn't save a place for Sherlock Holmes any more. Only Molly Hooper does. 

“No, I'm afraid not,” he says, his throat like sandpaper. “I'm not really better.”

“I see,” she says, adjusting his pillow and bringing a new cup of tea. He curls on his side again and watches her as she gets ready to leave for work. “Well, it's good that you're here, then. You can rest.”

 

*

Janine talks in her sleep. Not in actual words, but she frowns and looks like she's fighting with someone. Then she turns on the side, her back to him, and continues sleeping peacefully. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, can't sleep. Which, quite frankly, doesn't make much sense – everything is developing according to his plans. 

Yet, he can't sleep. He doesn't toss or turn – doesn't want Janine to wake up because he doesn't want to talk to her: He would much prefer to be alone, and thus he gets up and walks barefoot into the sitting room. There he ponders the purpose of an unoccupied chair across from him and reminds himself firmly that John has a nice life. That he is happy. That happiness is something people are convinced to seek out, deceived into belief that somehow it will last. 

Most of the time he hates admitting Mycroft had been right about something, but in the quiet of his room his chest feels empty and deflated. He recalls John and Mary dancing and Molly's yellow dress and Mrs Hudson's laugh. He remembers leaving, quiet like a shadow, and like a shadow he feels even now. He needs the woman in his bed as a means to achieve a goal and nothing more.

 _No_. He doesn't truly need people. They tend to leave a hollow feeling behind them, which is distracting and that, _that_ he doesn't need. 

He goes back to bed. His feet are cold and his legs feel numb. He feels like he had eaten something of particularly unpleasant taste, which he can't wash out of his mouth. Somewhere in this same city, John Watson is asleep. Somewhere, behind a door he opened before is Molly Hooper, dreaming perfectly pleasant dreams. Or at least he hopes that she does. He hopes that she is content and appreciated, and loved by a man who is ordinary and dull; but a man who won't hurt her with nearly everything he says. Which is... fine by him. Absolutely fine. 

He resolutely closes his eyes. Takes one deep breath and another, reminding himself that people that matter are safe; and wonders, briefly, what Molly's breathing next to him would sound like. What would it be like to kiss her, properly, with all the intention and dedication she desires? 

_Had desired_.

Sherlock keeps his eyes shut, but he doesn't manage to sleep. 

 

*

 

“There's no point in hiding from the person who shot you if you're going to get yourself bleed to death anyway.”

Sherlock suppresses a groan and considers Molly's words, but stubbornly continues with his attempts to leave the bed. It's harder than it should be, which means leaving the hospital on his own was not among his best ideas. Getting up earns him a look of disapproval, but he can't stand spending precious time in bed any more. He needs to act. The sooner the better, and he can't tell Molly why. She sighs and gives up this particular fight, following him through the apartment and towards the kitchen. Halfway there her hand wraps itself around his waist. “You big, stubborn mule,” she says. There's a tiny hint of fondness in her voice, and a great deal of worry. A solid dose of anger which hadn't left ever since the Slapping Incident. (Except he deserved that, which means he shouldn't be calling it an incident. He does, wishing entire ordeal could be classified as an incident, but it isn't, which is why he deserved those slaps.)

She holds him closer and he ignores the tug inside his chest. She is still angry with him, rightfully, and still disappointed. It's a sensation as physical and real as the half – healed hole inside his chest. 

He doesn't say anything. 

“You could just ask, you know,” she continues, as she does most of the time, filling the silence and the space between them with her words. “I would come and get you, instead of this -”

“I think I can manage a short walk to your kitchen, Molly -”

“I didn't mean that,” she says as they shuffle along and into the narrow, pleasant space of her kitchen. “Well. That too, but everything else, Sherlock. You...,” she pauses, sounding tired, “should take more care of yourself,” she says, standing now in front of him, lowering her gaze to the middle of his chest. That's when it hits him – she may be angry and disappointed, but underneath all of that she is saddened. “I don't want to watch you harming yourself. You asked once,” she says, looking up and for a fraction of moment he has something like clarity of understanding. 

“Sherlock?” she says. 

He leans against the door frame and regards her, with her plain clothes and her neat ponytail. The thing about Molly is that she's ordinary to look at, so unassuming, someone you'd underestimate. Someone he _did_ underestimate. She is a person who cannot hide her intentions or desires even if she tried. Someone you'd pass on the street without even looking twice. Someone you rely on without realizing how much, because she's always been there until she suddenly wasn't; and the memory of it still weighs heavy in his chest. (He knows, had always known how she felt, how she looked at him, but for the longest time he didn't _understand_.) 

And now they're back where they've been.... only not exactly where they've been. It's an amorphous realization he can't quantify. He can deduce Molly Hooper, her working and eating habits, but he doesn't understand her. 

“Sherlock?” she insists, gently this time, and he dares looking up, from her hands to her face. “If you need -” 

He nods. 

It's her eyes that make him silent. “You -” she starts, stops, looks down at his chest again. Looks back up at him with renewed resolve. “I can't watch you killing yourself. I can't deal with that. If you need help,” she shakes her head, like she's struggling with a parallel dialogue inside her mind. “Just ask. Just call me,” she says. “You don't have to break in here,” her fingers briefly wrap around his. “I'll open the door. All you need to do is knock.”

 

*

 

He doesn't break in. He doesn't need to break in any more. Molly's apartment may not be the place he calls home, but he has a key and he's welcome. 

Well, most of the time. She's not exactly delighted when he wakes her by pushing his freezing feet against her bare ones, or when he pulls her close, her back to his chest, his hand across her stomach; but he is cold and this case is finally, finally over. 

“That tickles me,” she says when he keeps running his fingers across her ribs and settles them low on her abdomen. 

“Mhmm,” he says, too selfish to let her go. She doesn't really mind, and he knows she doesn't. 

“And your feet are freezing,” she says, as he hides a smirk into her hair. 

“Yes, the weather is simply dreadful,” he proceeds. “ _I_ am freezing.”

“Poor you,” she says with a sound of smile in her voice and now he knows he has won. She turns to face him and tangle with him, her arm under his, her face against his chest. 

“Why, yes, poor me.”

“Do you need me to kiss something better?” she asks and the grin is starting to spread on his face when she gives him a kiss. She likes to kiss like this, sweet and slow and without reservations, she gives and gives in and allows him to take the kiss where he pleases. It doesn't take long at all until his hands are against her skin and she makes that little noise in the back of her throat which means _yes_ and _more_. For something that didn't interest him much, if at all, he gets lost all too easily, and if Molly is ready to give in? He is even more so. 

And then there's this – he's seen her naked enough times to know her better than any map, any path, any room behind his own door. He's counted her birthmarks and catalogued all the freckles on her skin and yet it seems that she will never lose the power over him. Isn't something that happens frequently supposed to become a habit, and by becoming a habit also predictable, and by definition boring? Yet she never is (never will be), and if she's somehow turned into a pattern, if the rhythm of her heartbeat is known, counted (and counted upon) he will never get tired of it. And then, being naked with her, being bared in all possible ways scares him and excites him and that is something he _still_ doesn't understand. 

“Mine,” he says while he's trembling beneath her and clinging to her like to an anchor, feeling open and vulnerable yet somehow still safe. 

She places a kiss against the side of his throat. “And you're mine,” she says. It's what she always says, without a thought or pause. He thinks he understands, but can't be sure, because he was never eloquent in these matters. And then, when he can't fall asleep even after an act of intimacy, Molly props her face above his and strokes his hair away. 

“What is it?” she asks. 

“I'm not sure I can explain,” he says as he looks up at her. 

“Try,” she says.

He frowns because the words flee him, stuck together inside his throat, making his breathing painful. He turns to his side, and then they're face - to – face. The sight of Molly bathed in the light of bedside lamp is as familiar as the weight of his coat. He takes a breath and begins. “Emotions are results of neurochemical processes. They are reactions to the outside events or inner thoughts, desires or aspirations,” he recites, watching her amused smile, fighting the desire to enjoy it and protest at the same time. “Their purpose is to prepare you for correct action and further your chances of survival.”

“You sound like a psychology textbook,” she says. 

“That is from a textbook,” he offers. 

“But I don't want a textbook, Sherlock.”

She's still looking at him. He struggles. With what, he's not exactly sure. 

“Out with it, my dear detective,” she says. 

The question he asks her comes as a surprise to him, but perhaps not to her. 

“Will you ever get tired of … observing me?” is what he says. He's not sure how it's connected with everything else, except Universe isn't lazy and there are no coincidences. And Molly smiles, warmly, knowingly, touches his brow and cheekbone and lets her finger rest against his lips. 

“If I asked you that same question, what would you answer me?” she says. 

He swallows. There is entire lengthy monologue made up of sentiment and ridiculous words he feels unsure about, which is why they end up sublimed into just one thing. _Mine_ he thinks, realizing that in his chest it feels like _can I be yours, will you have me?_ and mirrors her motion, tracing the lines of her face. She turns her face into his palm and kisses it. He can't bring himself to speak, and she looks at him like she understands that there is no way for him to find the right words, so she lets him kiss her instead.


End file.
